


Follow Your Dreams

by Lordes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dark Thoughts, Gen, Heavy Emotions, Hurt, Insanity, Ministry of Magic, Non-Canonical Character Death, Oneshot, Plot, Post Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Sad Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, The Arch in the Ministry of Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordes/pseuds/Lordes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Fred’s death, George loses his will to live. Nothing seems important anymore until he has a dream. A dream about Fred. They start ‘meeting’ more frequently and George seems to have come back from the dead. Until a worse fate befalls him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Your Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Without Masterde this piece would’ve never been written. He was my bunny, even though he might not have realised it. So thank you for that, Pup. Also, thanks to Mab for _all_ her patience with me and for Lordhellebore for the fantastic beta read. ♥ 
> 
> Posted [HERE](http://lordes.livejournal.com/222723.html) on livejournal
> 
> This piece was originally written for hp_darkarts' _Shadow of the Season_ fest and originally posted [HERE](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/58933.html).

George feels as if he is dreaming.

People are moving around him: searching for loved ones, cleaning up the rubble to make way for more, carrying bodies or seeking comfort in the arms of others. George needs none of those things. He has already found what he was looking for, what he had been fearing, lying on the cold, hard floor of the Great Hall, surrounded by his family. He has found it in the now empty brown eyes of his brother.

His mother grabs one of Fred’s hands and presses it against her cheek. He sees her cry. His father is draped around her back, also crying, trying to comfort her. George looks at his other siblings and notices they are all equally devastated. Charlie is softly petting Fred’s head, Ron and Ginny are hugging each other tightly, looking down at their older brother. Bill is standing on the opposite side of him, shaking his head as Percy grabs his hand and squeezes it softly.

George carefully touches his own cheek. It is dry. He reaches up with his other hand and touches the other and moves up to his eyes; he is not crying. He wonders if he should be. The soft wailing of his mother has him drop his hands again. She says something, first to Fred and then to his father. As Bill crouches down in front of her, he sees her say something to him too.

He looks around. In the middle of the hall Remus and Tonks are lying on the ground, further down there is a student he recognises from his own year, but whose name he cannot remember. Like with Fred, his family is draped around him. He cannot see if any of them is crying or not, but he assumes they are. After all; his family is, too. There is some tumult behind him. He turns around and sees Harry angrily talking to Professor Mcgonagall; behind him, the limp body of Severus Snape is hovering in the air.

He smiles. There is no doubt about it, he really _must_ be dreaming. After all, there is no way his twin brother is dead. He simply cannot be.

He shakes off the hand that grabs his wrist as he is about to walk away, not even bothering to look who it is, and makes his way out of the Great Hall. As he turns the corner towards the staircase, he is vaguely aware of Bill calling after him.

*

Kingsley’s face is drawn, his frown lines more prominent than before as he talks to them. George hears him say that he is very sorry for their loss, but that it is no reason for them to let their guard down. George wonders how anybody could have named him the new Minister of Magic, as he is obviously unable to tell the living from the dead. They have lost nobody, and any moment now the door to the Burrow will open and Fred will walk in with the same goofy smile on his face he always has, and life will continue as it has always been. Nothing has changed.

However, George is very willing to believe that the war is not over yet, so at least Kingsley is right about one thing: they should be careful. What if somebody were to die? That would be horrible.

After Kingsley explained everything and is done talking, George takes it upon himself to stand up and thank him for his time. After all, it is the polite thing to do. Kingsley has come all this way just to tell them to be careful. He is a good man. As George is shaking the Minister's hand, he sees the strange looks he is getting from his family. His parents seem confused, Charlie's face is scrunched up in anger. He turns back to Kingsley and notices the shocked expression on his face, too. George does not understand, what is wrong? Bill comes over and lays his big hands on George’s smaller shoulders and guides him away, apologising to their friend while he does so. George lets Bill lead him away, too confused to ask anything. He sits when his brother tells him to, and stares after him as he walks off, back into the kitchen.

He looks around. Bill guided him into the Burrow’s sitting room, a room he should be very familiar with, but one he barely recognises anymore. The clock indicating where every member of the family is is still hanging on the wall, but it seems to be broken. Since the last time he was here the pointers have not moved from their place, letting them all know they were in mortal danger. However, Fred’s seems to be missing. He gets up and moves towards the clock to give it a closer look. How odd. It feels smooth as he traces his own pointer with his finger and slowly pulls it away from the rest, lets it go and watches as it rotates back. He moves the other pointers around, doing the same with every single one of them, but Fred’s does not appear.

*

His mother has sent him to his and Fred’s place to pick up some clothes. He had not understood her when she had told him what kind of clothes she was expecting him to bring back, but apparently and according to her, right now he does not need to.

Their place seems awfully quiet as he walks through their rooms, looking for the things he needs to pack. Bill is following him closely, something else he does not quite understand yet. He had tried asking him why he had come, after all his house was only a floo away, and Bill had answered that it was for safety precautions. Something tells George his brother is not being honest with him, but he waves that feeling off for now.

They had decided that it would be for the best if nobody were to live alone for now, and with Fred still missing George had agreed on temporarily moving back in with his parents. He agreed with them on the topic of safety, and wandering around in a Death Eater infested world has never been a good idea.

The clock chimes three times as he packs his last pair of jeans and an extra jacket, and he is about to make his way over to the Floo when he remembers something. He puts down his bag again and tells Bill he needs to check on Weasley Wizard Wheezes, since Fred might be there. His brother gives him a look of pure pain, walks over and engulfs George in one of the tightest hugs anybody has ever given him. He goes with it, as Bill obviously needs it. When tears start to wet his shirt he hugs his big brother back and waits for it to pass.

*

George finds it strange that nobody is bringing up Fred, nor his absence. Is nobody missing him, then? He has been at his parents’ place for about a week now, and every single time he tries bringing up the topic of searching for his twin brother, people give him a pained or confused look. Sometimes they start crying, other times they will shoot him an angry stare and in very rare cases, George will get hugged.

He is also strangely excused from any Order work. A very odd occurance, as the members mainly gather in his parents’ house. Whenever he will try and help, somebody will usually tell him there is nothing to help with, yet new members are gathered each day. George is getting desperate. So far, there has been no sign of Fred, and he is starting to get really worried. Nobody is talking to him about it, and because he is not included in any Order meetings anymore, he is not getting any wiser. He wants to know what is going on, and he wants to know it _now_.

He manages to corner his mother in the kitchen, who, up until then and for some unknown reason, has been unwilling to talk to him, and who is busy making dinner, probably for all the Order members that will be coming over tonight. However, instead of giving him the answers he is looking for, she simply cups his face and plants a big, sloppy kiss on his forehead. She says his name, tells him dinner will be ready in a bit and sends him off again.

There are no Order members that evening, only his mother, his father, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny and him, all gathered around the table, all eating in complete silence. George has the nagging feeling something is not right, but does not dare to ask in case he gets another angry glare or disapproving comment. Instead, he eats his food without speaking a single word, like the rest of them, and when he is finished, he gets up and leaves.

He gets halfway up the stairs when he realises there is nothing for him up there and decides to go for a walk. The outside May air is warm but fresh, a single breeze softly moving through his hair and clothes. He walks around the house and finds a comfortable spot to sit and wait for the stars to come out. They had done that a lot when they were younger, Fred and he, and again he wonders where his brother could possibly be. Maybe he will turn up tomorrow; his mother has been talking about this big event coming up they all have to attend. Maybe that is why they are all so sad. Maybe they do not want to go without Fred.

*

George is gasping for air, his legs feel like jelly and his chest like it were about to explode. He lets himself fall to his knees, wrenches off his tie, trying to let more air through. This cannot be happening, this cannot be true! However, even as he is thinking it, memories from the Great Hall come flooding back in. He starts shaking his head, the tears wetting his face and shirt as he begins sobbing uncontrollably. Everything makes sense now: his parents’ behaviour, his friends, the speech Minister Shacklebolt had given, why they had not wanted him to be alone, Fred’s absence.

The chest he saw his other half lie in is now slowly being lowered into the ground by two Aurors. It is made of a dark mahogany with a rounded top, decorated with the engraving of a tree. Its branches glow in the light of the setting sun, magic shimmering off them in green, purple and orange colours. George wants to yell at them, tell them to stop, tell them it was all a big mistake, but he cannot. He can no longer deny what happened. Fred is gone.

Two strong arms embrace him in a tight hug and slowly lift him off the ground, giving him the chance to get his legs under himself again, and walk him away from the scene. He looks up and through his tears sees Bill. Good old Bill, always there for him to catch him when he will fall, always there to pick him back up. George throws his arms around his big brother and hugs him back, crying as if his life depended on it, and maybe it does. His heart feels as if it was beating a beat too many and yet too few at the same time. He feels sick, he feels like he is about to throw up, but the only thing that he is able to do is cry. Still clinging to his brother, he feels himself being picked up from the floor and, as he wraps his legs around Bill, carried away.

He is not able to hear the people who try to talk to him, the only sound in his ears being the beating of his heart and a persistent ringing. He feels dizzy. Bill had sat him down on a couch in the living room of the Burrow and had made him tea; tea that has now gone cold in the cup in his hands. He looks down at it, the brown liquid oddly fascinating. Or maybe it is just his brain, incapable of comprehending what is really happening.

A hand settles on his shoulder and he raises his head to see Harry stare down at him, a worried look on his face. He sees Harry speak, but the words do not register. He shakes his head to get rid of the ringing sound, which Harry seems to take as an answer as he nods, pats him on the shoulder twice and walks away.

George does not care.

*

People are fussing over him and he does not like it; he wants to be alone. Whenever he will move through the house and walks into a room already inhabited by others, he will turn around and find a spot to himself. People mean talking, talking means listening, and listening is something he simply cannot do right now. He does not care. He does not care for others, their pains or their losses. All he cares for right now is his.

His mother is fussing over him, too, telling him he needs to eat and sleep properly, but George does not care about that, either. He cannot sleep even if he wanted to, which he does not, the nightmares of him failing to save his brother forever haunting him at night. So he stays awake, but when he does sleep, they are short naps that George suspects to be more like blackouts. Dreamless, short and relieving.

That, and with the constant pressure of his family looming over him, George decides to move back into their flat, the flat that is now only _his_. He should probably just sell it. Why would he want to live in an place filled with things that remind him of the one thing he wants, but cannot have? However, selling it seems impossible. Every attempt he makes fails, and George realises that deep down inside he does not want to get rid of the place after all. So he gets comfortable again, unpacks all his things once more and stacks them away neatly.

He looks around and smiles. It is not a full smile and it certainly does not reach his eyes, but it is a smile nonetheless. The flat is tidy, and Fred’s things are neatly stashed away in a box on the attic. He misses his brother, but he is ready to move on.

Until he sees his brother smile back at him. Until he sees himself in the mirror.

*

June hits, and as the days get longer, so do his nights. Sleep turns into a rare occurrence, and except for the occasional blackout he has, he does not get much rest at all. Dragging himself out of bed after another sleepless night, George shuffles slowly into the kitchen. It is a mess. There are cups stacked so high the window is barely even visible anymore. He reaches out and grabs one of the used ones, sniffs it, wrinkles his nose at the smell and gives it a quick rinse. As he turns the kettle on for some tea, he notices the lack of plates on the counter and wonders if he should eat something. Or shave. He lets his fingers trace where his chin once was, but there is only a big bush of hair. However, as shaving means being bothered with his looks and as he is not bothered by it at all, he will leave it be. The less of a resemblance he bears to his brother, the better.

As he sits and sips his tea from the scalding cup, he wonders what the day will have in store for him, or rather, whom. Not a day goes by without somebody visiting him, always using a different excuse, always lying. They really must think him senile if they think he is believing their words. He scoffs and puts his cup down to look at the newly formed blister on his hand. He wonders where he could have got it, then remembers the kettle he picked up from the stove earlier. The soft armchair he is sitting in gives a squeak as he leans back and sighs.

The world outside is bright and busy, people hurrying past each other in order to get to their destinations, not sparing each other as much as a second look. It has its perks, living above a shop in Diagon Alley, but right now it is only bothersome. George does not want any of those people outside, he does not need them. He does not need to see them, he does not need to hear them, he does not need _anything_ from them. Angry, he gets up to close his curtains and knocks the side table, with his cup of tea on it, over in the process, burning his leg. He looks at it, astonished and frozen, and observes how the colour of his skin slowly turns from a pale pink into a bright red. The pain registers, but George does not act on it right away. He lets go of the curtain first, still firmly clenched in his fist, and lets himself softly fall on the ground before stretching out the burnt leg. When he hovers his hand above the burnt spot he winces, the warmth that is radiating off his hand irritating to the sensitive skin. He chokes back a sob as a single tear rolls down his cheek. Wiping it in frustration, George takes a deep breath and slaps his hand down as hard as he can.

Eyes wide and back arched, George screams. He screams until there is no air left in his lungs and even then he does not stop. He lets himself fall back on the ground, his leg bent, his hand still on the burn, nails digging in harder and deeper. His face scrunches up in pain as he feels his skin break and a trickle of blood run down his leg. He has no more energy to scream, but that is okay. As much as it hurts, George basks in it. He breathes in and out heavily a couple of times, relaxing his hand a bit before biting back another scream as he rakes his nails down over the burn once again.

His skin broken and hand bloody, and with him still lying on the ground, George finally relaxes his hand and lets it rest next to his face. As he does so a choked sob escapes his throat, then another. He tries to keep them back, hold it in. He does not want to feel it, not now, not today, not _yet_ , but he cannot. When the tears start flowing, George can no longer hold on and gives in to sobbing.

*

The fabric of his pyjamas clings to the blood on his leg as George makes his way down the stairs. He is limping and tries to be careful, but cannot prevent himself from tripping once he pushes the door that leads into Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes open. Managing to land on his undamaged knee, he grabs the corner of the counter and pulls himself back up.

The shop is dark and dusty, almost unrecognisably so. Shelf after shelf are either emptied or grey, covered in cobwebs and dust bunnies. George walks over to one of them and picks up one of the long forgotten Love Potions. As he slowly pulls off the many webs and wipes away the dust, the liquid contents of the bottle slowly start shining again. He holds it closer to his face, examining what feels like an old friend, the pink light from deep within reflecting off his face. He puts the now warm bottle back down, and as it clinks and touches the bottle next to it, that one starts shining, too, creating a domino effect. Soon the whole shop is shining, buzzing and twirling once again.

George turns and finds his reflection in the mirror look back at him. Beard rough, hair long and messy, tangled at the ends and greasy on top, pyjamas dirty with blood and other filth, dressing gown open at the seams where the stitches have given out. He sighs and walks over to the mirror, realising he and the shop are not that different at all.

*

He shakily rakes his hand through his hair before picking up the shaving blade. The metal feels odd in his hand, and he wonders if shaving is a skill one can forget how to practise. With his beard foamed up with shaving cream, George puts the sharp edge of the blade on his cheek and slides it down.  
One stroke after another, George's face starts appearing again and when he is done, he carefully tries a smile. It is watery and does not quite resemble him just yet. He decides he should probably get a haircut as well.

*

With his leg properly bandaged, the walk down into Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is a lot easier. He manages to get down the stairs and into the shop without tripping, and even though there is a firm limp present, he is no longer in danger of falling unexpectedly.  
When George opens the back door he takes a deep breath. Even below the thick layer of dust the old scent of the shop is still very pertinent, filling him with long forgotten memories and unexpected feelings of nostalgia. He rolls up his sleeves, whips out his wand and starts cleaning.  
The dust proves to be harder to get rid of than George initially anticipated, and by the time most of it has disappeared off the shelves, it has instead appeared on George.  
"Can you believe it, Fred," he asks, mostly to himself, and shakes his head in amusement, "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is actually starting to look like a shop again."  
The bottle he was holding breaks as it drops to the floor, splinters of glass flying across the room, the green liquid in it slowly soaking George's shoes as a familiar voice answers him.  
"I can't believe you let it get this dirty in the first place, brother dear."  
George does not dare turn. He does not dare look, afraid that he is dreaming, afraid that nothing will be there, afraid he is imagining it.

The eerie silence that follows is so maddening that George finally turns and looks around - nothing. He walks up one of the stairs and checks the upper level of the shop which also turns out to be empty. A sigh escapes him and his shoulders slump a little. He folds the cloth he had been cleaning with and puts it on the balustrade in front of him. As he rests both hands on it, one on the cloth, he drops his head and just stands there for a while, breathing in the fresh smell of citrus and lime. The answer he got, so obviously in the voice of his brother, so familiar to his ears, had it merely been his imagination?

"Fred…" His voice is soft, almost like a moan. 

His shoulders go stiff and he scrunches his eyes shut, waiting, expecting his brother to answer him once again, but nothing comes. Angry with sorrow and regret, he fists the cloth and throws it over the balustrade. The sound it makes when it hits the floor is almost too soft to notice, but still too loud in the deadly silence of the shop. George screams. He screams as loud and as long as his lungs enable him to. Turning around, he slides his arms over the freshly cleaned shelves, clearing it of every single item on it. The glass crunches under his feet while several now unidentifiable liquids soak his shoes and socks. After the first shelf is completely empty he moves to a second, and then a third. Magical birds start flying around the shop in panic, while fumes move and float around, forming one random shape after the other before evaporating into thin air. George jumps to reach a higher shelf and pulls it, including its bottles, bowls and spheres, down on himself. He does not want to see it anymore, does not want to smell it, does not even want to _remember_ it exists.

As he turns around frantically, looking for more shelves to pull down and clear and bottles to break, he spots an untouched sphere on the top step of the stairs. Letting himself fall onto his knees he crawls towards it, not even noticing the cuts the broken glass is leaving on his legs and palms. He reaches out for the sphere, purple, green and orange magic softly floating around inside of it, and closes his hand around it. The one thing that reminds him so harshly of what he can no longer have, no matter how hard he tries to imagine, no matter how much he wishes, no matter _what_ he does. He raises his arm, ready to smash it back down and break the last still unbroken Weasley product within his reach, but he catches a glimpse of himself in the long and elegant mirror on the wall before he is able to bring his arm down completely. The mirror is tall, at least twice the size of the average wizard, if not more, and at least five feet wide.

The colours of the sphere still in his hand take turns, appearing on a somewhat too familiar face, reflecting in the dark brown eyes and off the pale skin. Purple, green, and orange; the colours of the funeral, the colours of Fred. George’s breath hitches as the eyes in the mirror stare back at him, surprise as evident in them as they are probably in his own. He tries to crawl over to the mirror, slipping and sliding on the wet floor as he does, but to no avail. The moment he gets close enough to touch the cold, hard surface he sees nobody but himself.

"No. No," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, no, no, no, _no_. You were just here. You were _just_ here!"

George starts clawing at the mirror, panic rising in his throat. He had seen him. He had seen his brother. He knows he was right. "I saw you! I SAW YOU! You can’t be gone now. Fred. Fred! Come on, come back!" 

As he lets his hand slide down, he looks at his mirror image. His clothes are a mess, and hair is standing up on one side while on the other there is something blue dripping from the ends of his hair on his shoulder. He looks at it in the mirror and moves his hand through it; it feels warm, somehow, and a little bit sticky. He wonders what it could have been, or which potions have mixed together to have made this odd substance. He shakes his head and, focussing his attention back on the rest of him, he notices the state of the shop in the background. He turns and groans. If this is what Fred saw earlier, it is no miracle he has left. He must have been so very disappointed.

_Look at it._ He thinks. _Look at yourself for_ Merlin’s _sake_. He groans, sits back against the thick wooden frame of the mirror and rubs his hands roughly over his face a few times. What had he done?

*

June turns into July, summer into fall, and by the time the first snowflakes start falling George is a changed man. The shelves in Weasleys Wizard Wheezes have been restocked and the shop has been reopened. Once again every corner in the place is filled with people and buzzing with life. George leans over the somewhat too familiar balustrade on the first floor and looks down in content at the aura of happiness that is emitted by the crowd down below. This is how it is supposed to be, this is how Fred had wanted it. This is where he is needed most. As he stretches his back with a satisfied smile, he glances at the mirror he had first seen his brother appear in. Fred is there, smiling back at him, which fills his heart with joy.

After the first encounter, George had started seeing Fred in most mirror images, windows and reflections. Never able to come close, it had driven him insane, resulting in many a smashed surface. But after a while filled with clawing, smashing, more screaming and destruction, George had been too tired to keep on fighting and had decided to accept what was given to him instead of struggling to get more. It had brought him peace, because wherever he goes these days, he can count on Fred being there with him. He is no longer alone, no longer feels the need to hide. So he had decided, on a gloomy autumn afternoon, to pick up the pieces that was his shop and start living his life again.

Because with Fred at his side, anything is possible.

He sees his brother wave at him from the mirror and waves back. Or maybe it was him who started waving and Fred who waved back. It does not matter to George. They are together now, two pieces of one soul, reunited once more.

It is no lie that even George has accepted the way they have been brought together; the urge to run to his other half has not subsided in the least. Not a day goes by without the yearning to talk, to see, to _touch_ ripping his heart into pieces. It is a fate of the damned, yet a fate of the blessed, to be able to see what they want most, yet unable to truly have it back. It is temptation at its finest, torture of the highest degree, but he wouldn’t trade for the world.

As George turns to make his way downstairs he sees Fred wink once before he, too, turns and disappears from the mirror. It is time to socialise, talk to his customers and maybe even sell an extra love potion or two. As important it is in times like these to keep a watchful eye, it is as important not to forget the power of love and the warmth that it brings, as George has experienced first hand these past months. Even through something as small as a watchful eye. He moves down the stairs and his twin moves with him in the reflection of the windows adorning the eastern wall of the shop. The steps creak under his feet and the yearning to look grows, but he knows he is too close for it to work. He knows, might he look, there would only be himself. An odd reflection of a version of a person he thinks he knows, but who is not quite right. He will get lost in his own eyes, waiting for them to change into the ever loving ones of his brother, knowing they never will, but hopeful that if only he were to wait long enough, Fred would come back.

A black messy mop of hair moves in the corner of his eye, followed closely by a fiery red ponytail. He knows without looking who they are, glued to each other’s side since the demise of Voldemort, inseparable. George understands, he understands like no other, having the other half of your soul so close, yet feeling they are so vulnerable you never want to let go of them, never want to lose sight of their being. Yes, George knows this feeling all too well. As he looks he sees them admiring one of the Pigmy Puffs. Ginny always loved those, even when they had just opened the shop. Even now she is happily picking up one after the other, letting it hop from hand to finger and back before picking up another one in an even brighter colour. As his eyes move from her to Harry he notices their hands and fingers are tightly entwined, knuckles almost white.

George’s heart clenches painfully at the sight. The desperation in their grip is evident, the support they give each other only assumable. What he would not give to have that feeling once again. He squeezes his own hand tightly into a fist as the jealousy soars through him. It is not fair. It has never been fair. He turns and leaves, bitterness obvious in his frown.

*

The first thing he sees as he opens his eyes are the bricks he is standing on. They are a dark red, tanned by the sun, rough and rounded at the edges. Not one stone is the same as the other and, as he looks up, they seem to go on forever. He is standing on a road with dark houses on each side of it, except for a single lit house all the way at the end. A loud chattering and singing is coming out of it, and it seems to give off a warm and welcoming aura. As he starts walking towards the brightly lit house, which George can only assume is some sort of café, judging by the sounds that it is emitting, he feels his stomach do a backflip. Something is missing. He turns and notices his reflection in one of the dark windows and realises what it is he is missing. The reflection staring back at him is no other than himself. Sadness washes over him as he takes a couple of steps in the direction of the window. Over the past months he has got so used to his brother being there with him that not having him makes him feel like he has lost Fred all over again.

"I’m right here, brother," a familiar voice sounds from behind.

George turns, spinning so fast he feels a bit dizzy for a second or two. But there he stands, right in front of him: Fred. George gapes - his brother is really there, wherever there might be. He shakes his head once, opens his eyes and, when he sees Fred still standing right in front of him, shakes it again.

"Fred…" His voice is nothing more than a soft whimper as he starts walking towards him. It does not take long for his steps to turn into running, and before he knows it George is sprinting towards his long lost half.

"Brother, brother _stop_ ," Fred insists, and when George finally complies he notices he has not moved forward by a single stone on the road.

"Wha-"

"The rules of the Universe," Fred says, "dictate we can meet, but not _yet_ touch." He spreads his arms slowly. "But this, isn’t this enough?"

George does not answer. He does not know what he could even reply with. Doubt fogs his mind just as the hope of no longer being alone fills his heart, making him feel dizzy. He wants to scream at Fred for leaving him, wants to beg for forgiveness for not being there for him when he needed him most, wants to curl around him and never let go. He wants all of those things, all of them at the same time. For a minute George grows insecure; is this really better than not having Fred at all? Having him but not _really_ having him?

"I’ve missed you, you know," Fred says then, interrupting his thoughts. "It’s not the same without having you around."

All he can do is stare. It really is not the same, he agrees, but does he really need to tell his brother this? They both know it. And acknowledging this would only…

"Is this real?" he manages to choke out.

Fred only smiles. It is a kind and warm smile, but there is more to it. Pity, maybe, George cannot tell for sure. "You’re not the first person to ask," Fred says, "but does it really matter?"

*

Loud banging on the door violently wakes George up. In his hurry to get out of bed to open his front door he gets stuck in his duvet, trips and falls flat on his face, arms still too busy trying to get rid of the blankets around his feet. He groans just as he hears a familiar voice yell at him.

"George! George, are you okay?"

"M’fine," George manages to yell back at Bill, whom he can now hear walking through his living room towards his bedroom. The door opens just as George manages to sit up.

"What?" he asks, annoyed at the sudden interruption of his dream, if that is what you could call last night. He rubs his hands over his face, combs one of them through his hair a couple of times and gets up, throwing the blankets back onto his bed.

"What?" Bill repeats. "It’s 11am and Wheezes is still closed, _that’s_ what."

George grunts once and makes his way to the door and grabs the keys to the shop. By doing so he notices the reflection of a very recognisable redhead following him, making him sigh in relief. Fred is still there.

"Here," he says as he throws the keys at Bill. "Open the shop for me, will you? I’ll be down in a minute, I just want to take a quick shower."

Not giving his brother enough time to think of some sort of smart reply, George rushes through the bathroom door and closes it behind him. He turns on the shower and while the steam of the warm water fills the small room, he sees Fred appear in the mirror on the far end wall.

"You know," he starts, "for a minute there I was worried you wouldn’t be here anymore." He takes his shirt off and throws it on the pile next to the sink. It is starting to grow bigger than it, and he admits it is probably time to do his laundry soon. Sometimes he wishes he was still living at home, if only for the convenience of freshly washed clothes every single Sunday.

"It’s silly, of course," he continues as he takes his bottoms off, too. "There is no reason you would disappear now, not after last night."

George pauses for a moment, naked, holding the shorts he just took off in his hand. He smiles a quick smile before throwing them, too, on the pile, adding just enough for it to slowly topple over and spread over his floor.

"Great," George mumbles as he kicks his dirty clothing back together until he decides the pile looks pile-ish enough again.

He jumps into the shower and grabs the bottle of shampoo before realising something. "Where do you go, anyway, when I’m not around to provide you with a reflection?" He sticks his head out of the shower curtain again, not looking directly at the mirror but still noticing Fred in it. "Do you just disappear for a while, or don’t you need me at all?" he says as he smiles again. "Maybe I’m just imagining things." He slowly combs his hands through his now shampooed hair. "Maybe you’re never truly gone." George pauses, staring at the wall in front of him for a while, lost in thought. Shrugging the odd sensation off, he continues the thorough cleaning of his hair.

"You know," he calls out a little louder than is maybe necessary. "I actually thought I was crazy for the first five minutes I saw you." He pauses as if giving Fred the chance to reply, but when nothing comes, he continues. "I’m happy I know now I’m not."

*

He finds Bill behind the registry, taking an order of an elderly man for what sounds like his grandson’s birthday party, and decides to give them both some space while he does his round through the shop. Bill is obviously capable enough to handle it himself. He makes his way through the crowd, shaking hands here and there, waving at the always familiar person and is about to walk up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor when he notices his mother waving at him from behind a group of people forming an impenetrable wall.

"Excuse me," he hears her say. "Yes, yes, excuse me, dear. Thank you. Yes, thank you." George notices her arms are filled with stuff, making him chuckle. His dear old mother will probably never change.

As she reaches him she hands him every single lotion, Puff and potion that she is carrying and gives him three solid kisses on his cheeks before planting one on his forehead. "It’s so good to see you again," she says. "It’s been too long already."

George laughs loudly this time. "Mum, I think Bill would like me to relieve him now, he’s been here since 11."

"As have I," she says as she tries to wipe an invisible smudge off his nose. "He’ll be fine. Now, I think it’s time to buy your mother a nice cup of hot tea."

*

"I’ll have you know we were all so very worried," his mother says as she takes a small sip from her cup. They have settled in one of the cozy tea rooms in Diagon Alley, not too far from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The interior is a soft pink, strangely reminding him of Umbridge and leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth every time he drinks from his tea.

"And obviously everybody grieves in their own way, we all had to, too," she continues. "But you…" She pauses and puts her hand over his . He notices how old it looks. Sometimes he still sees her in the same way she looked like when he and Fred were young children. She would bounce around the house, make sure they were well fed and dressed warmly enough, and often sing along horribly with old radio songs. He smiles at the memory of her, and of him and Fred. Fred…

"I can’t take much credit, though," George says before his mother is able to continue her story. "It’s mostly been Fred. Without him I’d still be hiding away in my flat." He looks up at her and sees her blinking away at her tears.

"Sweetheart," his mother starts off carefully. She pets his hand twice before softly squeezing it. "You know Fred is gone, right?"

"Oh, but he isn’t," he says, smiling a big toothy grin, and this time it is _his_ turn to squeeze his mother’s hand reassuringly. "He’s here, mum, right here. He always is."

For a minute they are both silent. George does not understand. Why is his mother not happy? He would have jumped at the opportunity if somebody had told him they had a way for him to be reunited with his brother.

"We all carry him in our hearths with us, Georgie," she says after a while. "And… and I’m happy that’s given you the strength you needed to move on."

*

As George enters his flat the first thing he notices is the reflection following him from the corner of his eye. He takes off his jacket and angrily throws it on the dark auburn couch as the memory of his mother’s words rings through his head.

"Fine, then she _doesn’t_ understand." He huffs as he lets himself fall back on the same couch he threw his jacket on and lets his head fall back onto the backrest. "See if I care." It comes out in a mumble.

As the light slowly moves through his room and Diagon Alley grows quiet once more, he sits back up and rakes a shaking hand through his hair.

"I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. It’ll just be our secret."

He waits, knowing Fred will not answer but still hoping, deep down inside, that he might. It has happened before, and so it could happen again.

"It’s just the two of us, now."

*

The sound of a vaguely familiar song ushers George to open his eyes and when he does, he notices he is back on the red-bricked road. For a minute he stands still and closes his eyes again, taking in the melody of the song, but it just doesn’t click. He sighs and turns, expecting to see Fred, but finding an empty road instead.

"Fred?" he calls out insecurely as he skims the houses around him. They are all just as dark as the night before. One by one he looks them over, almost expecting to see somebody move through one, a light going on or a door creaking in its hinges, opening to let his brother through.

"You were always the impatient one."

George, not unlike last time, spins so fast towards the sound of the voice he feels a little dizzy.

"Calm now, brother," Fred says. "I’m not going anywhere just yet."

"Yet?" George repeats in a small voice. Is he leaving already? So soon?

"It is nothing to worry about for now." Fred smiles at him and sits down. "Don’t you recognise the song?"

George looks over his shoulder into the direction of the café before looking back at Fred, following his lead and sitting down, the stones surprisingly comfortable. He sits there for a while, the soft and distant tune of the flute giving him goosebumps. Shaking his head he looks back up at his brother. He had not noticed it before, but Fred is wearing the old Weasley Christmas jumper. It is a dark red with a big yellow ‘F’ knitted into it. There are loose threads hanging from his sleeves and his jeans look two sizes too big on him. He does not look anything like the Fred whom he had to say goodbye to not too long ago. No, he looks like the old Fred. _His_ Fred. The Fred from his memories.

"It’ll come to you," Fred says. "You’ll remember."

*

The air feels unusually cold when George awakes. Getting up he grabs his morning robe and wraps it tightly around himself. He shivers, opens the thick, long dark blue curtains keeping out the light from his bedroom and notices the snow. The whole of Diagon Alley is wrapped in a perfectly unblemished white blanket. Not one roof has been missed and the streets, still empty, giving a spectacular view.

As he walks into his living room and lits his fireplace with a flick of his wand, he thinks of what he will be doing for Christmas for the first time that year. Normally he and Fred would make sure their whole family would be well provided with nice food, a tree and presents for everybody.

"Maybe this year we could celebrate it together, just the two of us?" George asks and realises that right now, he would do anything to be able to touch him again even for just a brief moment. He thinks back to Harry and Ginny holding hands and balls his hand into a fist. If only he could hold his hand!

He decides he should ask Fred tonight. What had he said again? Something about the Universe and them not being able to touch yet. Always with the _yet_. He wants to know what it means already. Shaking off the feeling of uncomfortableness he stretches his back, greets the familiar move of Fred’s reflection in the mirror and makes his way to the bathroom for his morning shower while his flat slowly warms up through the hot flames of the freshly lit fire.

*

As George walks up to Fred and sits down as usual he notices the song is still playing in the background. The tune soothes him and by the time he is on the ground facing Fred, he has completely forgotten about his original question. Instead he notices another rather peculiar thing about the road they are on. It is so alike Diagon Alley, but so unlike it at the same time. Something is missing.

"There’s no snow," he points out and wonders if the place where he is now is really that much different from the place at home.

"Do you want it to snow?" Fred asks as the first snowflake softly lands on George’s nose. He looks up. The normally clear sky and stars have been replaced by dark clouds and one by one, more snowflakes start to appear around them. George holds out one of his hands and catches another flake before slowly closing his fingers around it. It melts almost instantly, yet George feels no cold.

"Only you can answer your question, brother," Fred says as he takes a strand of his hair between his fingers and pulls out one of the white crystals. "They are quite beautiful, if I may say so myself."

George is too mesmerised by the snow to answer right away. He should feel cold, he should feel wet, but neither of those things could be less true. He is just as comfortable and warm as he was before this world too turned as white as the highest mountain peak.

"Ah," he hears his brother say. "It appears we have run out of time already."

Soft orange and yellow shades appear on Fred’s face, making his already warm brown eyes look even warmer in the early morning light of the rising sun.

"It is time to wake up."

*

"How am I supposed to answer my own questions?" George lets out a frustrated groan as he takes another futile attempt at straightening his bedding. Giving up, he throws his pillows carelessly on there - not that it matters right now anyway, the bed already looks messy enough as it is - and leaves his bedroom.

"You know, as happy as I am having you back, I am as upset with you as I’ve ever been." He grabs the keys to the shop and is about to leave when he stops. Something is not right. The same uncomfortable feeling he got the day before overtakes him instantly and he turns, wand at the ready. As a shiver runs down his back; he moves through the living room, bedroom and pushes open the door to the bathroom. It’s empty.

It’s empty…

He takes another few steps towards the mirror, but nothing changes. The reflection he sees is still only his own.

*

"Where were you yesterday? And the day before?" George asks the moment he sees Fred appear. His feet left prints from where he opened his eyes to where he walked, but apart from that the snow is as white and untouched as when the sun came up the last time he had been there.

"Right here," Fred says. "Right where you want me to be."

"Do I?" George asks him, still frustrated and now also a little bit disappointed. The realisation of Fred no longer following him around had felt like a slap in the face. Lost and alone, he had not been able to open the shop, had ignored the floos from his worried friends and family and had hid in his room, waiting for night to fall.

"I am only where you imagine me being, brother." Fred moves a bit closer and sits down, expecting George to do the same, who refuses. "If that is in your reflection, watching over you, it is where I’ll be. If that is here," he spreads his arms as to make clear where exactly ‘here’ is, "this is where I’ll be waiting."

"Can’t you be in two places?" George notices how his voice almost sounds like a whine and shuts himself up immediately. Thorn between gratefulness and wanting more he starts pacing, no longer caring about keeping the blanket of snow pure. He does not know what he would want more anymore: having his time with Fred at night, talking, but having to spend his days in solitude, or having Fred by his side forever, never once being alone, but no longer being able to speak with him. Not that it matters, Fred is not exactly answering many of his questions.

"Do you want me to be in both places?"

There he goes again. George angrily kicks at the snow, but sees it has completely disappeared. Not sure if he should ask the futile question of where the snow has disappeared _to_ or tell Fred he has had enough of him answering his questions with more questions, he sees the sun appear on the horizon. He looks at Fred, who smiles at him. While his gaze wanders back to the warm morning sky he wonders why the nights seem to grow shorter and shorter every single time he visits.

He turns to ask, but Fred has already gone. George sighs, hiding his hands in his pockets and poking at the road with the tip of his shoe before closing his eyes. It is time to wake up.

*

It is a Sunday, so the shop stays closed today. Stretching out in his bed he sighs contently, enjoying the warmth of his blankets and many pillows for just a little bit longer. When the sound of the owl delivering the Sunday Prophet appears, he decides it is time to get up.

He gives the owl a Knut and a quick treat before sending it back off into the cold weather. It is snowing again, and the sky is grey with thick, heavy clouds. One of the flakes lands on his nose and when he wrinkles it automatically in response to the cold, he smiles. It is a true smile, a smile of pure happiness and contentment. Of the memory of a precious moment with Fred.

With a happy sigh he closes the window and shuts the curtains again. There is no need for the day to begin just yet, so he walks over to his living room, lights a fire and sits down in his most comfortable chair. Being a little wet from the snow, the paper crunches loudly when he opens it, and so drowns out the crackling the fire makes when the head of his mother appears in it.

"And a very good morning to you too."

George nearly jumps out of his chair. "Mum, I hadn’t heard you… arrive," he says, folding the paper back up. He will be saving that for later, as he does not have any plans for the day anyway.

"I was wondering about your plans for Christmas, and if we’ll be seeing you this year," his mother says carefully.

George chokes. He knows exactly why she is being so careful. This will be their first Christmas without Fred. 

"We’ll see, mum," he starts, "but I can’t make any promises." He smiles uncomfortably, swallows past the lump in his throat and nervously rakes a hand through his hair. "I erm… we’ll see, okay?"

"Of course dear," Molly quickly says. "It’s all fine."

When the floo disconnects Fred lets out a breath he had not even realised he had been holding. Christmas at the Weasleys will be one big couple fest, and George is not sure if he is quite ready for that. To watch them together, love, touch, hold hands. He really only wants to take Fred, hold _his_ hand; even just thinking about a possible plus one makes him feel nauseous with betrayal. He could not _possibly_ take anybody else than Fred, could he?

*

Fred is not there yet when he opens his eyes, but it is okay. George came here with a mission today: he wants answers. First and foremostly to the question of why they cannot touch. It does not even need to be a real hug. Just hands, just for a little while.

There was no snow when he left, and there still is none when he returns. The mysteriousness of the place appeals to him in a way that he wants to peel off its layers one by one and discover all its well hidden secrets. He has always had a knack for that.

A loud thud and the breaking of glass coming from the café startles George to the point that when Fred arrives next to him, he has, once more, forgotten the one question he set out to ask.

As his brother halts besides him, not even a mere metre away, he copies George’s stand. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, legs spread just a little bit, staring off into the distance.

"I’ve been wondering about that place," George says, and Fred hums in approval. "It’s the only lit place around here."

Fred says nothing, just stands there next to him with that goofy, all-telling smile.

"I always think of going there, but whenever I take a step or two, you seem to appear." George pauses as another loud burst of sound comes from the open door of the place.

"Can we go there?" he finally decides to ask.

"Can we?" Fred answers in return.

"Can’t we?" George says. 

Fred gives no answer and they stand together in total silence for a while until, somehow, George gets the uncomfortable feeling of morning approaching and decides it is time to press for one.

"How come you’re never answering any of my questions?" he asks, gaze firmly locked onto the lit house instead of brother. He does not want to know if Fred is smiling, or if that mysterious smile he loves as much as he hates it has disappeared by now. When he finally gets an answer it is one he was expecting, yet still finds himself oddly disappointed.

"I only have the answers you have, brother."

George huffs. However much he would like to start a discussion with Fred right now, he knows his efforts would be futile. Questions would be evaded, answers vague and untelling, and the whole thing would only lead to more frustration and bitterness on his part.

Maybe he should, though. Maybe he should just start that argument. Or at least _try_ to. If that is the only way to make Fred realise how much George really needs him right now and how little he is giving, no matter how much of that little he already _is_ giving.

His thoughts lead him, and before he knows it he sees the sun come up, the lights in the café go out and the familiar voice of his brother next to him telling him it is time to wake up.

*

George goes through the same routine he goes through each and every single morning. He wakes up, stares at the ceiling for a while trying to make sure he will never forget his times with Fred, as precious as they are now, lifts himself out of bed, makes his bed, showers, eats and spends his day working at the shop looking for reflections of himself that are just that _little_ bit off, indicating he is not alone.

It is so very tiring, especially with Fred being the way he is now. He just wants to be with him, feel normal again, feel _alive_. Hold his hand as they talk about times past and futures that will never be, and the only thing Fred does is avoid questions.

It is _all_ he does.

*

The song starts playing again and even though George is conscious, he refrains from opening his eyes just yet. It calms him greatly, the soft tones of the flute making small shivers run down his spine. He remembers Fred telling him he is supposed to know this song, but once again keeps drawing blanks. Not that it matters; it is a nice enough song to enjoy, no matter if he should recognise it or not, however familiar it may sound.

After a while of just lying on the somewhat too comfortable stones he starts to worry. Fred would have normally showed up by now. The sun is long gone, the café is once again full of life and the cold air makes his breath come out in tiny, white clouds. As he sits up his back gives a satisfied pop; he really must have been lyying there a while.

Minutes pass and by the time another hour has gone by George gets scared. Where is Fred? He stands up and looks around himself. The houses near him are all as dark and locked up as they have ever been and the road heading away from the café ends in nothingness.

"Fred?" he tries carefully, voice raised only a little, but when nobody answers, he raises it fully.

"FRED!"

Nothing. Fred is not there.

George’s breathing quickens. Fred cannot be gone. Not now, not after everything. He _has_ to come, he _has_ to be here. He turns, looks around him, sees nothing, turns again and looks more. As he slowly loses himself in a desperate attempt to stay calm and find his brother, a loud crash, followed by a loud laughing that almost sounds melodious to George’s ears, sounds from the café.

The café! George thinks of their conversation from the other night and recalls the answers he got from Fred.

"Yes," he says, "why can’t we?"

The laughing stops and as the song grows loud in the deserted street he starts walking. Eyes set on the house at the end of the road, he put his hands in his pockets and a firm determination in his step; he _shall_ reach that café. For a minute he wonders if there will be others there, long lost family members, friends. His mind lingers on Severus Snape for a second and he shivers. What _would_ he do if he were to walk into that man? What would he even say? Thank you for being an ass? He smiles to himself as he imagines the look on the face of his old professor. Not that it matters, really. All that matters is that Fred is there.

Hopefully.

Letting out a shaky breath George has to admit that the café does not look that much closer than it did when he started walking. Of course, it is hard to estimate a distance when it is dark, but an odd kind of worry creeps up George’s spine and will not let go. He quickens his pace, which is now close to jogging, but the strange sensation of something not being right does not go away.

He finally starts sprinting when he sees the first ray of light slowly peek over the horizon. It hits his eyes, forcing him to avert them and making him trip. He catches himself with his hands, does not waste time and pushes back up again, never losing speed. George is not sure what the café holds in store for him, he does not know if he will like it, hell! he does not even know if Fred will really be there, but for some unknown reason reaching that house before morning is the only thing on his mind.

The sun gets brighter, and by the time it has completely risen above the horizon George stops running. He rests his hands on his thighs and hangs his head, trying to calm his breathing. The longer he stands there and the higher the sun gets the harder it is for him to keep his eyes open. George yawns and stretches before rubbing one of his eyes with his palm. The café is clearly visible down the road. George blinks heavily. Down the road?

Before his eyes close a last time he looks down, and sees he has not moved forward by a single stone yet again.

*

George is silent when he wakes up. He does not talk to Fred, does not even look if he is there. When he opens the shop and his customers start flooding in, he keeps to the background. Today is not the day for small talk.

With the day staying relatively uneventful, he manages to call it an early night and closes Wheezes back up before the sun has even set. As he quietly walks up to and through the old door to his flat he hangs the keys next to the frame on the little iron hook, takes off his shirt, shoes, trousers and socks and crawls back into bed.

That night, George does not dream.

*

Days go by, and without dreams or Fred to keep George sane he slowly falls back into his old rhythm. Dishes stack, food goes left uneaten, and the only reason George still opens his shop every morning is because he does not want to let a last chance to see Fred again slip through his fingers. Maybe one day Fred will come back, and when he will, George knows it will be in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

The last ones to leave at the end of another day of forced smiles and faked enthusiasm are a man and a woman. As George wishes them a safe journey home, holding open the door for them, he sees the man grab the woman’s hand and squeeze it softly before smiling at her with a look that speaks of moments shared and love lived. It takes every bit of willpower George still has left in his body not to slam the door of the shop in their faces.

"Would it _really_ have been _that_ hard to just reach out _once_ , brother?"

They are the first words George has spoken to Fred since his disappearance. He hates himself for giving in, knowing full well he is merely talking to the empty walls and filled shelves of his shop. He had told himself not to talk to his brother for a while, not after what he did, but now that the words have started flowing it is as if he cannot stop anymore.

"Would it really have been _that_ disastrous? Would it really have killed you to just hold my bloody hand?" He is screaming the words now, voice raw with regret and magic bouncing all over the place, making many a window of the shop shimmer and vibrate with tension.

"Why can’t you, Fred? Why can’t you just hold my hand?!"

"You tell me."

The voice comes as unexpectedly as it had the first time Fred had talked to him. George gasps. "Because of the Universe. It doesn’t… You said it was impossible."

"In your sleep, yes," Fred says.

George does not answer. So they cannot touch in his sleep, but during the day he cannot even look Fred in the eye without having him disappear, so what…

His eyes go wide as a breeze on the first floor has one of the curtains wave erratically, casting odd shadows on the floor.

"The veil," George whispers.

*

One would expect the Ministry of Magic to increase their security levels right after a war, but sadly, nothing is less true.

 _The perks of being a war-hero_ , George thinks as he makes his way from Kingsley's office back to one of the big fireplaces in the atrium of the Ministry.

It had not taken him long to convince Minister Shacklebolt to give him access to the Department of Mysteries. In fact, it had taken him no time at all. The Minister had agreed as soon as George had thrown the question on the table, or well, in this case Kingsley’s desk.

Not that George is complaining in any way, but he could almost smell the pity in his older friend’s answer and that does not sit well with him at all. He does not need pity, from anybody. Not even from Fred.

_Just a little longer, brother_ , he thinks while he speaks the words to his flat and green flames take him away. _Just a few more nights._

*

He wraps his jacket a little tighter around himself as he snuggles into the fur-lined collar. There is a young boy on the corner of the street selling the newspaper of the day as owls scoop down and, dropping a Knut or two, grab one from his hands. George tosses him a Knut himself and as he accepts the paper the boy hands him he hears him say: "A very Merry Christmas to you, Sir."

George smiles. It has been too long since the world felt anything like close to normal, and even though it still does not, Christmas has a way of lifting everyone's spirits up a notch or two.

"Happy Christmas to you too, kid," he answers, winking. He sticks the newspaper between his arm and body, puts his gloved hands back into his pockets and makes his way over to one of the many decorated shops on Diagon Alley. There are three things on his ‘to-do’ list today. First he will make sure he buys all the right presents for the right people, including Fred. Then he will pay his brother a quick visit, and last but not least he will attend his family’s Christmas dinner later that day. When he had told his mother he would be coming over she had pretended not to be surprised, but to George the relief in her voice had been obvious.

This Christmas might not be so bad at all.

*

The Ministry is mostly empty when George enters. There is still the random Ministry worker, unlucky enough to have caught the Christmas shift here and there, but for the rest it is completely deserted.

He walks up to the hallway leading to the lifts and names the department he wants to go to. The doors of the lift make the loudest screeching noise, amplified by the echo of the hollow atrium, forcing George to cover his ears. When his father would take him to the Ministry on the odd Christmas night when he had to work when George was younger, it had always felt magical to him. Now, it feels rather creepy, as if the Ministry of Magic itself is in a deep slumber somehow.

As he steps out of the lift he remembers Kingsley’s directions and walks towards the door at the end of the hallway, waits until the room has stopped spinning and takes the third door to his right.

The first thing George notices when he pushes the door open is the absolute silence of the room. Not a single sound penetrates the thick stone walls, and even when he lets the door fall back into its lock it sounds muted, as if somebody had covered it with a thick pillow.

In the middle of the room stands the arch, giant and majestic, with a thick, almost smoke-like curtain hanging from it. An invisible wind is slowly moving it back and forth, leaving small vapours of the veil hanging absolutely still in the air before slowly evaporating into nothingness. George’s breath hitches as he moves closer and hears a very familiar tune coming from inside the arch. A shiver runs down his spine as it gets louder and is now joined by a few very familiar yet unknown voices.

"Fred?" he tries, but gets no answer.

The murmuring stops the moment George steps onto the plateau in the middle of the room, leaving only the sad tones of the flute as his lonely company. He stands in front of the misty curtain, currents of steam and wind gently touching his face. He closes his eyes as a breeze combs through his hair, making goosebumps stand up all over his neck and arms.

"Fred!" His heart skips a beat as he finally sees the face of his brother appear in the ghostly substance of the veil. It is only a shimmer, parts of a broken image, vague and incomplete, but he would recognise his brother anywhere. Fred gives him a cheeky grin and waves, going in and out of focus, parts of him disappearing and recurring as the curtain moves back and forth.

George shakes his head in frustration and angrily wipes at the tears running down his cheeks as he sees his brother stretch out his hand towards him. For a moment he takes a step back, emotional, grateful and a little overwhelmed. He is almost disbelieving of what is really happening, almost expecting that it is all a joke, a figment of his imagination, but when he sees Fred, sees his smile, his outstretched hand and familiar brown eyes, his doubts wash away completely. 

He tries to talk, but chokes on his words, and reaches for his brother. Their fingers link and as George steps behind the curtain, the music stops.

*

The world is dark. There is no light, no music, no road leading to nowhere surrounded by dark houses. There is no chattering, no café, no cheerful singing in the dead of the night, no beautiful sunrise, no Fred.

George is alone, and as he thinks back to his reflections, his conversations, his nights, he realises that he never followed his brother. He followed a dream.

~Fin


End file.
